


Wrapped in the Warmth of You

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Bottom Sherlock, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Heterosexual John, Homoromantic, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Murder, Mute Sherlock, Muteness, Mutilation, PTSD Sherlock, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romantic Friendship, Scars, Serial Killers, Sexual Content, Top John, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the great detective loses his voice in the same moment he comes to understand just what his blogger means to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapped in the Warmth of You

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Both of the non-Johnlock relationships are PAST ONLY. 
> 
> This takes place long after Reichenbach, after Sherlock returns, after Mary. I borrowed a page for Doyle and have Mary dead (for a while now) without explicitly saying how.
> 
> On the note of time passage, I'd like to think some harsher personality traits in a certain consulting detective might have softened a bit over the years. So if he doesn't seem 100% Sherlock as seen in the show, well, that's why.
> 
> I am not a medical expert (or a physicist). I did some research, and combined that with my own (minimal) knowledge of how vocalisations are produced. So please allow for some suspension of disbelief. Ultimately, it's supposed to be about the ensuing changes, not necessarily the mechanics of the cause.
> 
> And thanks to Mystradedoodles for being my smut sounding board.
> 
> Initial inspiration (and title) from "Gorecki" by Lamb.

It had happened unexpectedly. John had coerced him out of the flat for a couple hours, insisting with his doctor’s voice that Sherlock at least take a walk. Sherlock begrudgingly complied on the condition that John accompany him, as he refused to suffer the populous at large by himself. John shook his head, smiling, and fetched his jacket. They wound up at Angelo’s for an early supper, and were just leaving the restaurant when it happened.

Sherlock heard his name shouted through the crowd of people. He registered the anger as he turned toward it. The screams had just begun when he heard the gunshot and felt the impact, like a bat to his throat. Then the real pain, and heat spreading in his throat and down his neck. His fall was interrupted by a pair of powerful arms. John’s voice was somewhere, though he couldn’t pinpoint it. As his body and mind began to shut down, they narrowed in on the arms holding him away from the pavement.

In that moment, a revelation hit him like the solution to a good case. It had taken him far too long, he realised, to understand that this was where he belonged: wrapped in John’s arms. He had never felt so complete.

 

To wake up was a surprise. The idea of an afterlife had never been an appealing one to Sherlock. The discomfort and drugged feeling suggested too mild a punishment for some sort of Hell. So he was still alive. By the feel of the materials surrounding him, he knew it was a hospital bed before the machinery registered. It was day, though the blinds were shut. A chair was pulled up to the side of his bed, a slumped figure that could be none other than John.

Sherlock opened his mouth, dry as it was, in an attempt to wake John. An attempt was all it ended up. Pain shot through his throat, and not a sound left his mouth. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched the heavy bandages at his neck, just below his chin. Larynx, then. No spinal damage, as he could feel and move each limb. Statistically speaking, he had been incredibly lucky.

Once he had assessed the basics of his situation, he turned his attention back to John. The clever doctor had positioned himself just in Sherlock’s reach. He woke from the slightest touch on the back of his hand.

“Sherlock? Oh god, you’re alright.” The relief was palpable, as if a tension Sherlock had not known was there suddenly rushed out of the room. John squeezed his forearm lightly. “Thank god. You’re alright, you’re alright.” His voice took on a peculiar tone, as if he was trying to pre-emptively calm an imminent panic. “Christ, I don’t want to leave. But I really should fetch your doctor.”

Sherlock nodded as much as his bandages would allow.

John squeezed his arm again. “I’ll be right back.”

He snatched John’s wrist before he was out of reach. He mimed writing in the air.

“Of course,” John said with a tired grin.

Sherlock took a broader look at the room, as much as he could see from his position. He fumbled around, searching for the bed controls. Once he was in a moderately upright position, he could read more about his surroundings.

On the bench under the window was an overnight bag. John’s of course. A few changes of clothes, all of them looking worn at least once. So he’d been out for at least three or four days. Amazing they would allow a non-relative to stay overnight. No doubt Mycroft had something to do with it, but, for once, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at his brother’s meddling. In fact, he felt grateful for it. He wouldn’t care for anyone watching over him, save John.

There was a tap on the door and it opened, John striding back in and circling the bed to sit back in his chair, the watchful sentinel. He offered Sherlock a pad of paper and pen. The doctor that followed John in and flipped on the lights had barely time to greet his patient before Sherlock shoved the pad back at John.

_Who was it?_

John shook his head, failing to suppress a smile. “I’ll fill you in after the doc checks you over.”

Sherlock glowered and turned to his physician. Old enough to be experienced without being antiquated. Quite a bit of experience, judging from his calm demeanour. At least fifteen years as a surgeon. Married, successfully, two children. The expensive make of his clothes confirmed Sherlock’s earlier suspicion that he was in a private hospital.

“Glad to have you back with us, Mr. Holmes.”

The soundless words were on the tip of his useless tongue when John said, “He prefers Sherlock.”

Sherlock flashed a quick look at John, who returned the minute expression.

“Of course. John here has given me an idea of what you’d like to know. I also understand you have a good understanding of anatomy, so I’ll do my best not to dumb down and be boring.” He smiled genially. Apparently John had said a lot more about Sherlock’s disposition. “As you undoubtedly know, you were shot in the throat. The bullet was a nine millimetre shot from a military-issued handgun. I believe John can give you more details about the rest. No damage to your spinal cord of course, but I’m afraid the hyoid has been shattered. That might have been what saved your life actually, as it redirected the bullet just enough not to hit your spinal cord. However…” He paused with an uncertain look at John.

“Just tell him,” John said. He immediately when to chewing the inside of his lower lip.

“Between the bullet itself and the shattered bone, your vestibular and vocal folds and the surrounding muscles have been irreparably damaged.”

“Shredded,” John said quietly, “is the word on your chart.”

The physician bristled. “Dr. Watson, while I understand you yourself are a medical man and a dear friend of Mr Holmes’, you are not a relative and have no right to look at a patient’s chart without explicit-”

Sherlock held up his pad of paper before the last word was out. _CONSENT GIVEN._

The man smoothed his coat. “Very well. Mr. H- Sherlock. If you wish to make use of our psychiatric staff, please do not hesitate to ask.” He tried not to hurry out of the room, but his long strides were more than telling.

Sherlock scribbled on the pad. _How long?_

“Surgery lasted about eight hours. After that, you fell into a coma. Four days.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted to the overnight bag.

John sat back in his chair. “Like hell I was going anywhere. And yes, we do have Mycroft to thank. I nearly gave a few security officers bloody noses and black eyes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t act like that. You’re my best friend, Sherlock. You might as well be family. I wasn’t about to leave you.”

Sentiment got the best of him, and after a pause Sherlock mouthed his gratitude.

“I’m really fucking glad you’re alive.”

Sherlock gave a soundless, and somewhat painful, chuckle. John smiled and told him to piss off.

 

Sherlock had to dig quite a bit into his mental files to make a connection with the name of his assailant. A petty criminal, only part of a larger homicide case. But apparently unstable, as he had done nothing but nurse a hatred for Sherlock Holmes during his time in prison. After shooting Sherlock, he turned the gun on himself with far more success.

One by one, Sherlock’s acquaintances came to visit. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were first. Molly, Angelo, Stamford, and even Donovan followed. John never left his side in those moments, which was quite a relief in many ways. For one, he would read over Sherlock’s shoulder has he scratched out words and could often finish his sentences before they were written out, saving Sherlock frustration and everyone else some discomfort.

For another, well, Sherlock pushed that thought away as soon as it began to emerge.

On his third day awake, he received a text from a blocked number. _Let’s have dinner._ He smirked and deleted the text.

On day four, his mother showed up. She didn’t mother hen him so much as go on about how her eldest hadn’t said a word to her until Sherlock was out of his coma. She insisted she would have arrived sooner, but, well, there was a matter to attend to and… Rushing to loved one’s sides for anything short of death was not the Holmes way. She was a proud woman. As proud as she was of raising two brilliant boys on her own, she was prouder of her family name. She always said it was a blessing her husband left her when she was pregnant with Sherlock. Could you imagine, a name like Sherlock Sherrinford? No one ever pointed out that she was the one who chose the name Sherlock in the first place.

In typical Margaret Holmes fashion, she was the first person to pry John from Sherlock’s side and out of the hospital. After much polite insistence on both sides, Sherlock pointed at the door with as much exasperation as he could exude through physicality alone. He would never admit how it unnerved him to know John was, temporarily, nowhere nearby.

All too soon, Mummy’s true intentions were revealed. Twenty minutes after she and John left the room, Mycroft showed up. He sat in John’s chair, which made Sherlock cringe inside.

They watched each other for a long time, speaking without gesture or words on either of their parts. Finally, Mycroft sighed and said, “Oh baby brother.”

And Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed.

 

A week after his mother’s and Mycroft’s visits, Sherlock was discharged. The first thing he did was take a proper shower, after John helped him cover his neck in plastic to keep his throat sterile. Then he slept for twelve hours straight. No nurses interrupting to check his vitals, no visitors. Just sleep.

It was almost midnight when Sherlock emerged in pyjamas and dressing gown. It was wonderful to be wearing his own things again, rather than a hospital gown. John was still up, sitting in his chair reading.

“‘lo, sleeping beauty,” he said when Sherlock walked into his field of vision. “Hungry?”

Sherlock ignored the question and nodded to the ceiling. Rather, to John’s room.

“Not tired.”

Sherlock gave him a look that said he was being a horrendous liar.

John put aside his book and went to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, and then a saucepan. “Yes,” he called without looking at Sherlock. “You’re going to have some whether you want to or not. I won’t have you starve on me while you’re recovering.”

Sherlock grinned and fetched his violin. It was dreadfully out of tune. He took his time, and John returned as he was making the final adjustments. John set tea and a bowl of broth on Sherlock’s end table and took the violin from him. Sherlock scowled insincerely.

The silence between them wasn’t the usual, comfortable silence. Not for Sherlock at least. He had too many thoughts, over a fortnight’s worth built up. He didn’t want to think about the most intrusive. 

As his heart rate began to rise threateningly, John saved him from the panic. “I sent you an e-mail earlier.”

Sherlock fetched his laptop, the feel of it comforting under his fingers. John’s email was a link to a page advertising sign language classes. When he looked over the screen, he found John watching him hopefully.

“We’ll take it together. Then I can just be your interpreter, yeah?”

Sherlock looked back at the screen. He couldn’t bear the earnest look in John’s eyes, let alone the tone in his voice. He nodded and returned his laptop to the table. By the time he was seated once again in his chair, he could sip at his broth without fear of losing his mask.

 

John had barely made it through the front door before he began shouting at Sherlock. He burst into the kitchen, furious. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock looked up from the beaker in his hand.

“Are you insane? You’re barely a month into your recovery and you’re experimenting with substances that could do god knows what to your wound. Get rid of this shit now.”

Sherlock scowled and turned back to his beaker.

John snatched it from him and brought it to the sink.

Sherlock jumped from his chair and stood fuming, hand thrust out for the beaker.

“Can it go down the sink?” John snapped.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Then you get rid of it. Now.” There was a cold fire in John’s voice that Sherlock had never heard directed toward himself before. It didn’t allow for arguing.

Once everything had been cleaned up—a good experiment gone completely to waste—Sherlock began pacing madly in the sitting room.

“Sure, be pissed at me,” John muttered. “I’m only looking out for you. Like I always have.”

Sherlock threw up his arms and mouthed, “What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Bug Lestrade for a case-”

Sherlock huffed through his nostrils.

“-but that,” John waved back at the kitchen, “is one of the stupider things you’ve done over the years.”

Still seething, Sherlock snatched up his violin and bow and stormed off to his bedroom, making a point to slam the door.

He hadn’t been playing long before John knocked at the door, followed by a calm, “Just keep playing if you want me to leave.”

Sherlock was tempted, but he let the bow fall to his side. He sat on the edge of the bed as John opened the door and cautiously stepped inside. He sat tentatively next to Sherlock, clasping his hands between his knees and leaning forward.

“Look, I can’t even begin to imagine where you’re at, what you’re dealing with. I thought it was bad with my shoulder, but I know this is a lot worse, especially for you. I’m just trying to help. There’s not many ways I can, but I’m trying to as much as possible. And I can’t do that if you do stupid shit like that.”

Sherlock put his violin and bow on the bed behind them. He touched John’s shoulder to get his attention before signing, “Thank you, John Watson.”

John smiled. “You’re an arse.”

Sherlock nodded and John elbowed him.

At that moment, John’s phone chimed with a text message. He read the text and showed it to Sherlock. It was from Lestrade.

_Case. Could really use him if he’s up for it._

Sherlock retrieved his own phone and texted the DI. _Don’t be an idiot. SH_

_Cheers. We’re not far, north side of Regents. Gloucester Gate._

_Ten minutes. SH_

 

At the crime scene, everyone stared. Some tried to make it less obvious; others didn’t even attempt it. Sherlock went straight to the body. He crouched down, and John squatted on the other side.

“You’re mumbling,” John said quietly a minute into Sherlock’s examination.

He looked across at John and signed, “No sound.”

“Don’t be a smart arse.”

Sherlock shrugged and let out a small smirk as he looked back at the body. 

The victim, a woman in her late thirties, had been stripped completely. There was little blood on the ground. She had obviously been dumped, not killed here. The bullet she had taken to her head at close range made facial recognition impossible, and her teeth had been pulled out posthumously and without finesse; some crumbled roots remained. Oddly, her fingers remained unscathed. The murder and post-mortem acts were definitely premeditated, but not performed with much expertise.

He stood, and John stood with him. He turned half to Lestrade, half to John, and began signing and mouthing while John relayed to the DI.

“The murder was premeditated. Check the body for prints. The murderer owns a vehicle.”

Sherlock scanned the area.

“A sizeable one. And a wheelbarrow.”

Anderson interrupted, “He pulled out her teeth. You really think he was stupid enough to strip the body without gloves?”

Sherlock sighed. The “don’t be an idiot” was implied. He continued with his information.

“Unlikely to be a reoccurring incident, unless this is the first victim. The killer wasn’t practised at what they were doing. They won’t be in a profession where they use their hands for anything more than mundane tasks.”

Lestrade nodded. “We’ve got time of death between three and five this morning.”

“Err on the earlier side. When was the body reported?”

“An hour ago. Some poor kid lost his ball back here.”

Sherlock looked around the hedges surrounding the body. He strode over to some recent damage. Recent, but minimal.

“I take it back. You are looking for someone who works with their hands. A gardener. Someone who cares intimately for plants, but little for human life. Probably owns a small business. And a van.”

“Alright, we’ll start canvassing. Thanks.” He leant close to John while he thought Sherlock was giving the body a last once-over. “How many times did he call me an idiot.”

“Four. But Anderson had seven, and he only got two sentences in.”

Lestrade chuckled and clapped John on the back. “I’ll call you for a pint after this one.”

“Sounds good.” John went up to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded and they headed back to the street for a cab. Once on their way back home, Sherlock signed, “Dull.”

“Yeah, and that one dull case just exhausted you.”

Sherlock grimaced. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was far more tired than he ought to be after such a drab outing as that.

“You’re still recovering, Sherlock. Take it slow.”

Sherlock simply pulled out his mobile and slumped in his seat.

 

A few weeks after the gardener case, John allowed Sherlock to see potential clients again. He took less interesting cases than he might have in the past; he simply needed something to do. John was still limiting the kinds of experiments he could conduct, and London had only so many peculiar murders a week. To top off the list of annoyances, each minor case left him exhausted and sleeping for hours on end.

“Are you drugging me?” he signed to John after waking from one such slumber.

“Only with non-narcotic painkillers.” John had insisted, with the approval of Sherlock’s surgeon, that he get off the narcotics as soon as he could. Sherlock agreed, not bothering to inform them both that hydrocodone was hardly potent enough for his tastes. John would not have taken that information well.

“This is ridiculous.” Sherlock slumped into his chair across from John. “I never used to be so tired.”

“You’ve never been shot in the throat before either.”

“But I’ve been shot.”

John raised a brow. “When?”

“Long story.”

He put aside his paper. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Sherlock signed most of it, though more than he liked he had to mouth words where his knowledge of signing lacked. He could easily have been fluent by then, but that would be of no use if John was still lacking.

It happened when he was twenty-four. It was the first time he helped Lestrade on a case. Lestrade had admonished him and told him off, telling him not to interfere in police work. He’d get caught in the crossfire. And, well, that’s what happened. Sherlock tailed the criminal ahead of the police and was shot as a result of his inexperience.

“Inexperience. Sure. I’m guessing Lestrade calls it something else.”

Sherlock waved the comment away.

“Where were you shot?”

Sherlock rolled up the left leg of his pyjama bottoms to display the scar on the outside of his calf.

“Not to belittle your past trauma, but that hardly equates to a bullet through your neck.”

Sherlock huffed and curled up in his chair. 

“You’re just healing, Sherlock. It’s norm- natural.”

He glanced over at John and signed, “How long for you?”

John touched his left shoulder without thinking. “Three months for the wound to fully close. Six until I had my new maximum range of motion.”

Sherlock snarled unpleasantly. He wasn’t even at two months yet.

 

As the weeks went on, he slept less and less after cases. He was given the OK to eat soft solids, and the thick bandages waned to a single piece of gauze wrapped to his throat. His hours of alertness increased, for better and worse.

He found himself thinking more and more about the shooting. Not the shooting itself, but his last thoughts before waking up in the hospital. He didn’t like them, but they refused to be deleted.

Mycroft visited on the three month mark. Sherlock signed lazily to John, “Diet still isn’t working.”

John was in mid-eye roll when Mycroft said, “I am fluent in sign language. Multiple variants in fact.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock signed before throwing his arms up and curl up on the sofa with his back to the room.

“I’m actually here to speak with you, John.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock listened to them sit down. He sneered at the thought of Mycroft in his chair; he would not turn and add the visual.

“You were in the same company as a Tobias Sherman, were you not?”

“Toby, yeah. But he said he wasn’t reenlisting. Last I heard, he was getting married.”

“I’m afraid he did reenlist, last year.”

“Christ. What happened?”

“His camp took heavy damage. He was captured, and, according to our intelligence, is being forced to work as a surgeon for the other side.”

“He’d never-”

“Apparently, they obtained a photo from his person of himself, a young woman, and an infant. He did marry, and he has a young daughter. Apparently they’ve threatened him that, if he doesn’t patch up their wounded, they’ll find his family and, well, you can guess.”

“They’re bluffing. They have to be.”

“Most likely, but it seems Toby won’t risk calling the bluff.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“A rescue plan is being put together as we speak. However-”

“Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it.”

“Of course.”

“Christ,” John breathed. “But, Mycroft, why tell me? Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful, I think. But why?”

“It was necessary to look into Sherman’s background to get a best gauge on his psychology and his reaction to the situation, to understand if the intelligence we were receiving about his actions could be read as legitimate. In the process, one of our interviewees said the two of you had been quite amiable during your time serving together.”

“Yeah, we were.”

There was something odd in John’s voice, but Sherlock refused to blow his display of disinterest by turning around.

“Thanks. Uhm, do you happen to have his wife’s number or e-mail?”

“I’ll have Anthea email you.”

“Thanks.”

“John, I will let you know when there are developments.”

A minute later, the door opened and closed.

Sherlock turned over. John was hunched in his chair, brow in his hand. Sherlock rose and walked over. He touched John’s shoulder lightly.

“Not now.”

He repeated the action.

John swatted at him angrily, glaring up with cold fire in his eyes. “Christ, Sherlock, not now!”

As soon as John looked up, though, Sherlock began signing. “Anything I can do?”

John blinked, obviously taken off guard by the offer. Sherlock did his best to look genuine, not an expression he was used to making.

“Tea,” he signed and walked briskly to the kitchen. He didn’t know what else to do. It seemed like the thing people usually did when a friend was down. It felt so insincere.

John thanked him when he took his mug from Sherlock. Sherlock folded himself in his chair and put his own cup down long enough to sign, “Would talking help?”

John grimaced. “A therapist would say yes.” That was his usual way of saying the answer was probably yes, but he didn’t want to admit it.

“I’ll listen.” He picked up his cup and waited.

“He was a nurse. A bloody fantastic nurse. He joined up about eight months before I was shot. Didn’t take us long to become mates. About six months in, we received an onslaught of patients. A particularly successful bomb had gone off. It was a long day and a half for everyone. Most people went straight to their tents as soon as they could. Toby and I were still too pumped on adrenaline, so we got pissed instead. And, well,” John’s breathing hollowed for a moment. “We fooled around. Just wanked each other off and a lot of drunk snogging. Neither of us had done anything with a bloke before. When we finally talked it over, we both admitted we weren’t as ashamed as we thought we ought to have been. A few days later, we agreed to give it another go, this time sober. It was… nice. Maybe it was just that whole contact with another human thing, maybe just the biochemistry of it all, but it was nice. We never became romantic, just good friends and occasional wank-and-snog buddies. Never did more than that. After I was shot, right before they shipped me out, Toby found me and kissed my cheek. Said it was going to be a lot less fun without me there. We wrote back and forth a few times. Not often, just to make sure the other was still alive. When he told me he was coming home and never going back, I was relieved. Months later, he told me he’d fallen in love with a woman and was going to propose. He invited me to the wedding, but I didn’t go. I should have. I should have gone.”

Sherlock put down his cup and climbed out of his chair. John’s fists were clenched on the arms of his chair, his own mug long since abandoned on the end table. Sherlock stood over John, his breathing heavier than it ought to have been. John looked up. “If anyone can get him out, it’ll be my meddling ogre of a brother.”

John let out a dry laugh and nodded.

Then, for a very brief moment, Sherlock let his inhibitions go. He brushed John’s hair back from his brow and leant in. He pressed a quick kiss there before stepping back and putting his walls back up. “Shower,” he signed and fled John’s field of vision.

 

They didn’t discuss Mycroft’s visit, Toby, or anything else from that day. Just as well. Not forty-eight hours later, Lestrade showed up with a case that ranked at least an eight, possibly a nine. John wasn’t keen on letting Sherlock take it, but it was painfully obvious how desperate Lestrade was.

It turned out someone had been inspired by their gardener-gone-killer from weeks earlier. Three bodies showed up throughout Regents, each twelve hours apart. Faces destroyed by gunshots, teeth pulled out. The new killer had gone further, though. Before depositing his victims, he had shaved their entire bodies and cut off the tips of their fingers and thumbs.

After examining the bodies at the morgue and hours combing through crime scenes and photos alike, Sherlock emerged from his mind palace and signed, “This is art.”

John gave him a steady look, waiting for more before translating.

“To the killer, obviously. Look how the bodies are displayed.” He slid three photos to John, each taking in the entire body of a victim. They had been laid out with their arms over their heads and legs bent awkwardly. Awkward laying down that was. Had their faces been intact, they would no doubt have been adjusted to look like screams. “Horror movies,” Sherlock signed.

John nodded slowly as he began seeing a portion of what Sherlock saw. He began passing the new information to Lestrade and Donovan.

Sherlock asked how much time they had until the next body drop, if the pattern kept.

“A little under four hours,” Lestrade said.

The victims had not been dead long before being deposited, so there was still a couple hours to figure things out. 

The phone in the conference room rang, and Donovan snatched it up. The others waited impatiently until she hung up. “No missing persons reported in the last week, but the week before three individuals matching our vics’ body types were called in missing by families.”

“Connections?” Lestrade didn’t allow himself much hope.

“They’re the same age, roughly. All within eighteen months of each other.”

“Files,” Sherlock demanded, signing furiously at John but staring down the detectives. “Get me their files.”

“You going to let the police do the police work or what?” Donovan set her hands on her hips.

Sherlock scowled and turned back to the photos on the table.

 

He didn’t remember falling asleep, which was troubling in itself. That he had fallen asleep in the middle of a case was even more so. The conference room was dim, and the others had left. He rose and stretched, feeling the aches of sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. He was about to walk out in search of John or Lestrade when a shape on the table caught his attention. He flipped on the lights to find the victims’ folders stacked and waiting.

He returned to his seat and spread them out, inconsiderate of the mess it made of the photos still on the table. He flipped each file open to about the same page. It only took a few minutes to verify his earlier theory.

Outside Lestrade’s office, hand poised on the knob, he paused. The DI was arguing with someone. John.

“-help save lives.”

“At risk to himself. It was hard enough keeping him from killing himself from pure neglect before. You really want to ask him to chance re-injuring himself or infection or-”

“I get it, John. But we’re talking about serial homicide here.”

“And I’m talking about my best friend’s wellbeing, so shove it up your-”

Sherlock opened the door, startling both of them, and dropped the files on Lestade’s desk. He immediately signed, “Revenge.”

“The killer?” Lestrade looked at the folders.

“They were all in sixth form together. Your killer and potential victims will be as well. Check their A-levels.”

“Cheers.” He scribbled down the necessary information and darted out of the room.

Sherlock turned on his heel, seeing John’s watchful eye but not meeting it.

He snagged Sherlock’s sleeve. “Oy, where do you think you’re going?”

“Morgue.”

“What for?”

“Re-examine the bodies.”

“But we’ve already got things narrowed down. Let’s get something to eat.”

“Go ahead. I’ll text you.” He brushed through the door before letting John get another word in.

They hadn’t spent much time apart since Sherlock was shot, and most of it still found Sherlock in the flat. He had to use his phone to tell the cabbie where to go, but, if all went well, he would soon be isolated with three individuals who didn’t do much talking themselves.

As soon as he was seated on a stool, the three bodies pulled out before him, he retreated to his mind palace. There wasn’t much for it, though. He’d gone over every detail already. Unless they had all been film students, which was unlikely by the state of their-

A text alert broke his concentration. He swore, excessively if voicelessly. It was Lestrade.

_All but one of the students are accounted for. Considering we’re past eleven hours since the last body, it means the killer probably isn’t a classmate._

_When did s/he go missing? SH_

_This morning, around the time we found the third body._

_They were expecting to be caught by now. They might make mistakes. SH_

_Any other theories on the killer?_

_At least six. Narrowing down now. SH_

_What are your theories?_

Sherlock ignored the text, and the repeated one sent a few minutes later. He began walking from one end of the room to the other, trying to gain a new perspective on the bodies and the case at large.

“Tea?”

He snapped around, but it was only Molly.

“John mentioned something about how you shouldn’t have coffee. It’s strong, though.” She held up the cardboard cup. “Two sugars. Hope that’s alright. I know it’s how you like your coffee.”

He began signing, “Thank you,” and then corrected himself to mouthing the words and took the cup from her.

“I know a little bit of sign actually. Had a friend at school whose brother was deaf. Not as much as you or John, though.” She shoved her hands in her lab coat pockets and looked at the bodies. “Reminds me why I got into this job. Not the ghastly murders.” She gave a nervous laugh, and swallowed it halfway through. “But learning how different cultures treated their dead, I loved that about History. Some of them even positioned them certain ways after-”

Sherlock set his cup on one of the slabs, grabbed a stunned Molly by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek before darting out of the morgue. He was already done texting Lestrade by the time he hailed a cab.

_History teacher. SH_

 

Once the murderer had been taken into custody—caught in the middle of dropping the fourth body—Sherlock went straight home and to bed. He registered enough to know John was out before closing his door and falling into bed.

He was woken hours later by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Sorry, but you’ve been out more than twelve hours. You’ll get dehydrated.”

Sherlock would have groaned if he could. Instead, the sound came out as a long, toneless breath.

“Yeah, yeah. Curse me later. I’ve made tea, and Mrs. Hudson brought up some soup earlier.”

It was early morning rush hour, by the sounds outside. Sherlock stumbled groggily into the kitchen, collecting tea and soup by rote. He hated doing things by rote. Apparently his mood showed when he sat in his chair.

“What’s got you cranky? You solved another fantastic homicide case. An eight, you said?” John took a bite out of his toast.

Sherlock had never envied someone over toast before. “Bored,” he mouthed and shoved a spoonful of soup into his mouth. As good as Mrs. Hudson’s baking was, her cooking left something to be desired. He supposed it was sufficient for his needs, and to keep John off his back.

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

“Of this,” he signed, and then motioned to his bowl and his throat, and then back toward his room. “I’m not an invalid, but my body insists on acting like one.”

“Sherlock, you are invalided. At least a bit. I told you-”

“Healing, yes. Well I’m bored of healing.”

John rolled his eyes, covering up the fact that he had no words of comfort or consolation to share.

Sherlock changed the subject for both their sakes. “Where did you go yesterday?”

“Out.” But John let down his own defences without prompting. “I went to visit Toby’s wife.”

“How did that go?”

“Better than I thought. Turns out she knew all about me. Toby told her pretty early on. She said they weren’t keen on keeping secrets from each other, even when it came to their pasts.”

“Quaint.”

“Yeah, well, it made things easier. We talked a lot. I think we both just needed someone to talk to, someone else who’d known Toby like we had.”

“Intimately.”

“As a friend.”

“Of course.”

John rubbed his brow. “I feel awful for her. And their kid. She’s gorgeous, their daughter. Eighteen months now. Doesn’t even know what it’s like to have a father.” There was a noticeable shift in John’s expression, signalling a slight change in thought and topic. He let his hand drop to the arm of the chair. “Sherlock, the other day, what was that about?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“After I told you about Toby.”

“It appeared you were in need of comfort, and, as I had no appropriate words to say, my next recourse was a physical act.” As soon as he finished signing, he spooned more food into his mouth and paid particular focus to chewing a piece of chicken.

John watched him, apparently trying to suss out some deeper meaning. “Alright,” he said, though he didn’t sound very convinced.

 

Sherlock was finally able to do away with the bandages completely just before the four months mark. He stood in the bathroom before the mirror, taking in the sight and texture of the scar. For a moment, he let his mind drift back to that night, to the feeling being wrapped in John’s arms.

The man himself interrupted with a rap at the door. “How does it look?”

Sherlock opened the door and lifted his chin.

“Not bad.” John’s fingers brushed the skin.

Against his own volition, Sherlock retracted.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock signed. “You just startled me.”

“What’s going on with you?” John slowly crossed his arms.

Sherlock raised an enquiring brow.

“You’ve been jumpy lately.”

“Must be all that healing,” Sherlock signed and slid past John, headed for his room.

John grabbed his arm before he had one foot over the threshold. “You made me talk. I know you’re not the sharing type, Sherlock, but I thought you and I… we’re past that, aren’t we?”

Sherlock studied John’s frown, his forward concern. He was faced with making a finite decision at last: lie, or risk losing the one relationship he had cared about since he was five.

Then, in typical John Watson fashion, he eliminated the choice entirely. “We’re past the lies, right?”

Sherlock tugged his arm away, but only to sign, “Did you ever fantasize about Toby after you were discharged?”

John narrowed his gaze. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume this is coming back to you somehow.” He stuffed his hands into his jeans. “Yeah, on occasion. Less and less as time passed, but yeah.”

“In a non-sexual way?”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock gave an impatient huff. “Did you ever imagine yourself with another man beyond sexual acts?”

“You mean like a relationship?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I don’t think so, no. Why?” John spoke more cautiously now.

“Nor have I, with a man or a woman.”

“Alright, and?”

“Until recently.”

John blinked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, changing the tilt in his hips.

“After I was shot, when I was dying—” John flinched at the words, which was oddly comforting “—I wasn’t afraid of dying. I didn’t think of dying at all. All I could think about was…” his mind and hands stuttered.

“Sherlock?”

“You holding me. Being in your arms was… nice.”

There was a shallow intake of breath. Not a good sign.

“You have been more than a mere friend to me, John Watson, but I understand there cannot be something other than friendship between us. I hope whatever I am telling you now doesn’t ruin what we have.”

John stood there, not speaking. His breathing was abnormal, signs of shock clear everywhere. “I…” It was more of a vague sound than real speech. He swallowed hard. “I need to—time—to process.”

Sherlock nodded and stepped back into his bedroom, sliding the door quietly closed. He leant against it, listening to the sounds of John stepping unevenly down the hall and into the kitchen. He could just barely make out the sound of the door to the flat shutting.

 

John didn’t come back until tea, but he came back with takeaway. Sherlock hoped it wasn’t a farewell meal. They ate in complete silence. He tried not to fidget when he noticed John taking his final bites, or when he put his box aside and leant forward in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

“When I used to think about my future, it tended to have a faceless woman beside me, sometimes with kids, sometimes without. For a little while, she was Mary, before…” John gave as light shake, most likely unconscious. “Occasionally I’d even think about retirement, sometimes with grandkids, sometimes without.” He ran his hands through his hair and rested them, interlocked, on the back of his neck. “I don’t know when that started to change. Months ago? Maybe years? After Mary? Maybe even before? But now I think about us, about how you’ll still be you even when your hair’s gray and you can’t chase criminals anymore, and how we’ll still take the piss out of each other and eat crap takeaway while sizing up the latest murder cases in the paper. Sometimes the faceless woman is there. Sometimes she’s not. And I realise, when she’s not, it doesn’t really bother me. I don’t mind the idea of being a bachelor for the rest of my life, so long as you’re in the picture somewhere.” He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. He was quiet, though he didn’t seem expectant of Sherlock to say something. So Sherlock remained motionless. John let his hands drop and leant back in his chair. “I never thought of us as being anything other than friends. Best friends, I suppose, though that phrase seems a bit trite. Of course I love you, but I never considered being in love with you.”

Sherlock gave a slow nod, readying himself for the punch. It didn’t come.

“But the more I think about it, the more I try to picture it, it’s not unappealing. I think about the kind of person I want to spend the rest of my life with, the sort of person I’d come back to day in and day out, who’d come back to me, regardless of bickering and fights. I think, what kind of things could drive me to my limits without pushing me over? What person would put me there, who I’d still care enough about not to abandon? And maybe I used to have some image in my head of a nice looking woman with all the good and bad traits I thought could handle. She probably existed at some point. But when I think about it now, well, you drive me mad day in and day out. And I can’t imagine having a future without you in it, somewhere.” John took a deep breath. “So maybe that’s the answer, if there was a question I needed to answer. Maybe it’s taking a different step with what we have. Not changing it, but—I don’t know—adding to it?” His expression shifted; now he was waiting for Sherlock to say something.

The first thing he signed was, “I don’t want to pressure you into anything. If you’re making this decision solely for my benefit, don’t.”

John smiled. “Thanks, but you’re not forcing anything on me.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment, contemplating his words and the unspoken. John let him without held breath. “You’re not attracted to me, though.”

John shook his head. “But I wasn’t attracted to Toby either. I’m not physically attracted to men. I’m not repulsed by them either. Look, Toby and I were mates who found out we could enjoy each other’s company in other ways, ways that the body simply needs sometimes. I liked Toby because of the person he was. My friendship with him is nothing next to what you and I have. What we have, I don’t see a lot of it—among friends or lovers. We’re lucky, Sherlock. Mad, completely and utterly, but also lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“Do you want to call it destiny then?” John teased.

“Fine. Luck.” Sherlock gave a slight shake. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you are not attracted to me. What was between you and Toby was inevitably temporary, a substitute for what you wanted to find permanently once you were home.”

“Are you going to keep playing devil’s advocate on this?”

“I don’t want to be a substitute.” His brow creased. “I don’t want our relationship to change, only to find out down the road that I’m your temporary means of sexual gratification until you find that faceless woman.”

John’s expression fell. “Sherlock, I-”

“I don’t want to be your Plan B. I don’t want to be your ‘until something better comes along’. I want you, but not if it means-”

John rose from his chair and quickly closed the space between them. He took Sherlock’s hands between his, stilling them.

Sherlock realised he was breathing rather quickly.

“I get it. And I would never do that to you. I’m saying, if we do this, yeah, I’m in it for the long run.”

Sherlock slid his hands out from between John’s. “I don’t mean to trap you. If it were to become uncomfortable, something no longer enjoyable-”

“Like any relationship. But I wouldn’t leave you just because some dame came along.”

They were still speaking in the hypothetical. Sherlock felt uneasy about that. “So, you’ll think about it?”

John smiled and combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

It was a lovely feeling, and Sherlock let his eyes close, savouring it, sure it would never happen again.

“You idiot. What do you think I’ve been doing for the last eight hours?”

Sherlock opened his eyes.

“I’ve already thought about it. Yeah, let’s give it a go.”

Sherlock surged upward, taking John’s face in his hands and pressing his mouth hard into John’s. John chuckled into the kiss before returning it, resting his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock didn’t want to break the kiss, but he had to make sure John understood. He signed frantically, “I said I wasn’t going to push you into anything, and I promise I won’t. I can wait. This is fine for now, if you want to take it slow.”

Again, John covered Sherlock’s hands with his own. It was as if he was affectionately telling him to shut up. “We know everything about each other; we’ve lived together for years. Unless you want to take it slow?” John frowned, releasing Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock hesitated to answer. “No.”

“I know you said you tried dating at university, but do you actually have any experience? Sexually?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. I’ve been penetrated and quite enjoyed it.” They both went a little flush. “It’s been some time, though.”

John nodded and his smile turned wry. “So we’ll go slow, just a different kind of slow.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve got the bigger bed, so…”

“I don’t have any supplies.”

“Just because you haven’t had sex since uni doesn’t mean we’re totally unprepared.”

Sherlock raised a brow, grinning.

“I’ll meet you in your room, yeah?”

Sherlock snatched John’s arm before he could take two steps toward the stairs. He answered John’s quizzical look by signing, “You already said it, but I haven’t had the chance to: I love you.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and went upstairs.

In his bedroom, panic started to take hold of Sherlock. He began second guessing his decision to say anything to John, their decision to change what was between them. It could ruin their friendship, if John found he didn’t enjoy it after all, or if it didn’t last. He was so entangled in his thoughts, he didn’t hear John come into the room.

“You alright?”

He looked up, apparently looking as frenzied as he felt.

John deposited the lube and condoms he had brought down on the nightstand and grabbed Sherlock’s arms. “Hey, what’s wrong? Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. “What if this is the wrong decision?”

John made him sit on the bed and settled beside him. “If you want to take it one step at a time, that’s alright. But if you’re just worried about how I’m going to handle this—I told you, I’m fine. I thought about it, for eight hours I thought about it, and I want it. I promise, I do. You aren’t Plan B. You’re Plan A. I’m going into this fully aware—wanting to be with you for the long run.”

“Eight hours isn’t long compared to decades.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, we’ve been close for years already. We’re not exactly functioning on the norm here.”

“Should I court you first?”

John laughed. “Only if you really want to.”

“God no. It’s dreadfully boring and predictable.”

“Alright then. So we’re good then?”

Sherlock nodded and leant in to kiss him.

John took his shoulders and pushed him gently back. “Hold on. I realised we have to go over something first.” His gaze drifted to Sherlock’s neck, followed by his fingertips. “You won’t exactly be able to do much signing. So, if at any point you want me to stop, even if it’s just to slow things down, just shake your head. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded and pressed forward with the kiss. John accepted him, this time with an open mouth. He shuttered pleasantly when John’s fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. He reciprocated by sliding his hands under John’s jumper and vest and feeling out every centimetre of his torso.

Once John had pushed Sherlock’s shirt away, they separated to remove jumper and vests. They dealt hurriedly with their own trousers.

“Well,” John said, clearing his throat. Sherlock looked up to see John dramatically sizing up Sherlock’s prick. “I know you have big feet, but—well.”

Sherlock shook his head with a smile and pulled John close. He nodded down to John’s less-than-flaccid penis and gave John a questioning, albeit amused, look.

John shrugged. “You’re a fantastic kisser.”

Sherlock mouthed, “Oh?” He bent down, but instead of going for John’s mouth, he began ministering to his neck.

“Very good,” John sighed, leaning into Sherlock. His hands travelled down the curve of Sherlock’s back and gripped his buttocks. Sherlock’s hips hitched forward, and he sucked at a particularly tend spot on John’s neck.

When he felt one of John’s hands let go and his body lean, Sherlock backed off to sign, “Wait.”

“Hm?”

“I want to suck you first.” He didn’t sign it so much as mime it, which made John lean into him laughing.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m sure you meant that to be sexy, but that looked absolutely ridiculous.”

Sherlock pushed him back so he could see him sign, “Want to see me make it sexy?”

John snorted. “Sure.” He sat on the bed and Sherlock kicked aside their clothes and slid to his knees.

He started by kissing the inside of John’s thigh at the knee, moving gradually closer to his groin. When his cheek brushed blonde pubes, he shifted and did the same with the other thigh. He might not be able to speak, or moan John’s name, or make any of the sounds that indicated his desire and affection, but he would still make it known.

John leaned back on his hands, elbows locked, watching Sherlock with dark eyes, a mixture of arousal and fascination. Sherlock met his gaze as he moved one hand to John’s cock and tugged gently at the foreskin and began teasing the exposed head with kisses. John breathed in sharply and his fingers curled into Sherlock’s sheets.

He briefly signed, “Out of practice.”

John threw his head back. “God, tell me you’re not going to talk while giving me head.”

Sherlock smiled against the shaft before dragging the tip of his tongue up to the head and circling the slit. John let out a satisfied sigh and relaxed considerably. He pushed his lips down around the head and began to suck, at the same time wrapping a hand around the shaft. He relished the feel of John’s erection growing from his touch; more than that, he revelled in the reality. He closed his eyes, focusing on the taste and texture, even the smell.

A hand combed through his hair, stroking his scalp gently, occasionally twisting curls around fingers. He would have groaned if he could have; he felt the air moving in his chest, past broken muscles in his throat. He increased the pressure and elicited a groan from John instead.

“Careful,” John said, sounding quite out of breath. “Or we won’t get to the good part.”

Sherlock retreated from John’s cock and applied one more kiss to his thigh. John urged him up and leaned back so Sherlock laid on top of him. He didn’t kiss him, not right away. Instead he kept stroking his hair, the other hand resting on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock frowned and mouthed, “What?”

John shook his head and smiled. Then he drew Sherlock in for a kiss, and Sherlock let it go for the time being because John was quite the kisser himself, and he didn’t want to interrupt the moment.

They managed to gradually turn to their sides, and then to John on top. John retrieved the lube from the nightstand, and Sherlock pushed himself fully onto the bed, knees up and thighs spread.

“Someone’s eager,” John commented as he knelt on the bed between Sherlock’s ankles.

Sherlock pushed his arse off the bed in response.

John grinned and popped the cap on the lube.

Sherlock focused on keeping his breath steady. He had a childish fear that he was about to wake up and find this to be nothing more than a dream. He knew his senses better than that, though. He knew his mind better than that. This, here with John, was real.

The hand spreading his arse was real.

The slick finger circling and pressing slowly in was real.

The kiss against his knee was real.

Far better than any opiate.

John shifted on the bed to settle next to Sherlock’s hips. Every motion moved his finger pleasurably inside Sherlock, who wanted nothing more than to push himself down onto it.

But John wanted to go slow. He didn’t want to risk hurting Sherlock. And Sherlock knew even the slightest uncomfortable move would make John feel guilty. So Sherlock bit his lip and let John set the pace.

Luckily, the pace, and John’s new position, allowed for quite a lot of kissing and biting each other’s lips.

“Two?” John murmured against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock nodded readily, and John pressed a second finger inside. “Incredible,” he whispered.

Sherlock let out a breath that should have been a whimper. He turned his head into the crook of John’s neck.

“Alright?”

He nodded and pressed a reassuring kiss to John’s collarbone. John kissed the top of his head and carried on with stretching him. When his fingers brushed his prostate, he breathed in sharply and his hand flew up to grip John’s shoulder.

John stilled completely. “Did it hurt?”

Sherlock shook his head and turned his face up toward John.

“Prostate?”

Sherlock nodded and swallowed hard.

“Good to know we’ve found that.” He pushed his mouth against Sherlock’s and his tongue between Sherlock’s lips before Sherlock had a chance to give him any sort of sardonic look. John brushed his prostate again teasingly, making Sherlock shudder around him, before focusing once more on the stretch.

After John had removed his fingers, after he had rolled on a condom and applied a generous amount of lubricant, after settling once more between Sherlock’s legs, he still looked uncertain.

Sherlock began to sign, “If you don’t want-”

“I do. I’ve just, you know, never gone this far with another man before. Or woman. Anyone.”

Sherlock brushed the back of his fingers against John’s cheek. “Plan A,” he signed.

John relaxed and smiled softly. “Plan A.” He took Sherlock’s hand and kissed the palm.

Then he pressed in, slow and thick. It burned and it was wonderful. Sherlock shut his eyes, pressing his head back into the pillow, managing somehow to nod when John asked if he was alright.

He hardly noticed when John had stopped. It was John gently hushing him that brought him around. He opened his eyes and found John staring down at him. John kissed his forehead, and suddenly Sherlock’s body relaxed around John.

“There we are,” John whispered, stroking Sherlock’s sweat-damp temple. “Sh, there we are.”

Once Sherlock had his wits about him, he mouthed very carefully, “Fuck me.”

“So lewd.” John smirked and rocked his hips.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around those hips and squeezed.

John moaned, his head dropping as Sherlock increased the pressure on his cock. “Christ.”

But he took Sherlock’s indication to heart and began a steady rhythm. Sherlock matched it, pulling John in just the right way with every thrust. 

A slew of obscenities streamed from John’s mouth, intermittent among carnal sounds of pleasure. They all made Sherlock wanting, pulling tighter and more urgently, squeezing harder around John, fingers digging into his back. He almost missed the moment when John manoeuvred his hand between them. He dropped one hand to join John’s in wrapping around his cock. He was so close.

“Sherlock.” It rumbled in John’s throat like a growl.

It brought Sherlock over. He came, shuddering, mouth open, head pressed back, silent but no less powerful. John rode him through it, taking advantage of the pulsing pressure around his cock to bring himself to climax. He was not so quiet.

Sherlock didn’t want to move. John’s forehead rested on his chest. He could still feel the cock twitching against his tender inner walls. It was blissful.

But John did eventually lift himself off Sherlock, and he did pull out. He removed the condom, tied it off and tossed it blindly aside before flopping onto the bed next to Sherlock, one arm stretched across Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock lifted the arm to his mouth and kissed the inside of John’s forearm.

“Should probably clean up,” John murmured.

Sherlock clamped the arm against his chest.

John chuckled and moved his arm, but only so he could roll onto his side to face Sherlock. “Alright?”

“Yes, just don’t ask me to move.” Even his hands felt sluggish, and his signing was lazy as a result. “You?”

“Mhm. That was definitely new.”

“Good?”

“Yes, Sherlock, good new. Stop worrying. I’m a big boy.”

“I noticed.”

John gave him a lazy shove. He rolled over and started climbing out of bed. “Don’t panic. I’m just going to get a flannel.”

Sherlock nodded, not quite admitting to himself that his heart rate had already begun to rise in the half second between John moving away and his explanation. He listened to John’s footsteps, to the tap go on and off, and the returning footsteps. Focus calmed him.

John had obviously cleaned himself up in the bathroom. Sherlock held out his hand for the flannel, as it was clearly for his use, but John pushed his hand away. “Let me.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began with Sherlock’s fingers. There was little cum there, and soon John’s attentions were on Sherlock’s stomach, and then his sensitive prick. He was thorough and gentle. A surgeon’s touch.

When he was done, he picked up the used condom and went back to the bathroom. Sherlock strained his hearing, but needlessly. John came back. He pulled the sheets out from under Sherlock, stretched out next to him, and covered them both.

“Maybe it’s the endorphins speaking,” he muttered, “but your bed is really comfortable.”

Sherlock smiled and reached out slowly to brush at John’s hair. John closed his eyes, and Sherlock watched him drift off.

 

Five months after the shooting, Sherlock woke to John’s phone ringing. In his room. Their room. They hadn’t spent a lot of time playing coy about separate bedrooms, but it still felt like a novelty.

“Hello?” John answered. “Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s attention was, unfortunately, caught. He did away with wistful thoughts of falling back to sleep and sat up next to John.

“Oh god. Oh thank god. And you called Caryn? She’s alright? When will he be back? Of course. I get it. I’ll pay her a visit. Yeah. Thanks. Really, Mycroft, I mean it. Thank you.” John hung up and his shoulders slumped.

Sherlock tapped him on the back and, when he turned around, signed, “Toby?”

“Yeah. They got him out. He was hit in the crossfire, but he’ll be alright. Nothing serious, not long term anyway. They just want to make sure he’s healed enough not to split open before shipping him back home. But he’s safe.”

“You should see Caryn later.”

John nodded. “I will. Christ, she must be a wreck. A really happy wreck.”

“As are you.”

Indeed, John was grinning stupidly from relief.

“Do you want to invite her over?”

“Caryn?”

Sherlock nodded.

John reached forward and pressed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s brow. “Are you ill?”

Sherlock batted John’s hand away and signed furiously, “You insisted that if we were going to be in a relationship, I should-”

“Teasing,” John interrupted, covering Sherlock’s hands with his and bringing them together. He kissed Sherlock’s fingertips. “Teasing.”

Sherlock pulled one hand away to sign, “Insufferable.”

“Coming from you?” He released Sherlock’s other hands. “Actually, if you mean it, it might do Caryn some good to get out. Is it alright if she brings Emily?”

“Of course.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Will you behave?”

“If I must.”

“Thanks, love.” John gave him a quick kiss before retrieving his mobile.

While John was busy chatting furiously with a no doubt sobbing Caryn Sherman, Sherlock retrieved his own phone from the nightstand and sent one text: _Thank you._ He never got a reply, which was just as well.

 

A couple weeks later, the Shermans returned the invitation. John was antsy the entire day leading up to the dinner. Sherlock knew, logically, he had no reason for concern, but his emotional side was getting the better of him more and more when it came to John.

In the cab, Sherlock signed, “You’re preening.”

“What?”

“You’ve adjusted your jumper seven times since you put it on. You continually touch your hair in some way or another. You-”

“I’m just nervous.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t seen Toby in over six years.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’?”

“Is it normal for one to get nervous about seeing an old friend? I would think excitement would better fit the situation.”

“Damn it, Sherlock. Stop analysing for once. You know exactly why- Oh. Oh, god. Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“There’s no reason for you to be jealous.”

“I’m not, but thank you for the reassurance.”

John was doing a poor job of hiding his smile. “It’s like seeing an old ex. No matter where you are in life- What am I saying, you have no frame of reference for this. Look, it’s fine. You know why I’m nervous. That doesn’t mean our relationship’s in jeopardy.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and locked their fingers together. “I don’t need you being jealous over him. He is still recovering after all. So be nice. No deducing.”

“I doubt they know sign language.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to know either.”

“You make things so dull sometimes.”

“And you’re getting way too good at one-handed signing.” John grabbed his other hand and held it tight.

Caryn greeted them at the door, showing signs of sleep deprivation but, ultimately, joy. She hugged John before showing them in. “He’s really been looking forward to seeing you,” she said.

Sherlock studied her for signs of her own jealousy, but there were none to be found. He suddenly felt incredibly juvenile.

The man sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of sitting room, balancing the twenty-month-old Emily on his lap, was not what Sherlock expected. He didn’t realised until then he even had expectations. Toby could not have been much taller than John. He was ginger, hazel-eyed, covered in freckles—not at all like, well, Sherlock. Of course that made sense; John said he wasn’t attracted to men physically. However, Sherlock had still managed to harbour subconscious expectations.

“There’s my old flame,” Toby said.

Caryn picked up Emily and John surged forward to embrace his—friend.

Sherlock watched the entire exchange with a sharp eye, but there was only camaraderie between the two. History, but there was no sign of arousal in either of them. He began to relax.

When they let go and John stepped back, he motioned to Sherlock. “Toby, this is Sherlock.”

“Ah, so you’re my replacement.” Toby gave him a good-natured grin and offered his hand. Sherlock took it. “I always told John he was wasted with the ladies. He was too good with a prick.”

“Toby,” Caryn chided, making as if to cover their daughter’s ears.

Emily, for her part, was paying no mind to either parent. She was staring intently at Sherlock.

He waved, and she returned the gesture. The following silence made him look around; the others were watching him and the girl intently.

“They had quite the bonding experience,” Caryn said.

“She picks up on gestures quickly,” he signed, with John, of course, translating. “She’s very bright.”

“That’s quite the compliment coming from him,” John said, pointing his thumb back at Sherlock.

Toby nodded. “Read all about you in the papers, before I re-enlisted. Read John’s blog, too.”

John was openly surprised. “You did?”

“Of course I did.” He looked at Sherlock. “That was some stunt you pulled. And, believe me, if I’d known you were still alive, I would have kicked the living shit out of you.”

Sherlock and John were both taken aback.

“Well!” Caryn interrupted. “Dinner?”

Dinner was a relaxed affair. Most of the talking was done by John and Toby, regaling their partners with stories of the lighter stories of wartime. Neither shied away from mentioning their sexual forays when it was part of a story. “Such and such officer almost caught us behind the canteen” and so forth. Sherlock was still surprised by how at ease Caryn was with the whole thing. Sherlock, for his part, feigned partial attentiveness, seemingly more interested in Emily. To some extent of honesty, children had always been an area where his knowledge lacked, so his curiosity was sincere.

After pudding, Toby asked John if he still smoked. “No. Managed to kick it while I was in recovery for this thing.” He rolled his scarred shoulder.

“Shame.” He glanced at Sherlock.

“No,” John said, a little too forcefully.

“Oh, let up, Watson. Poor bloke probably hasn’t smelled a fresh fag since that happened.” He tapped his own neck.

“And for good bloody reason. Christ, Toby, you’re a nurse.”

Sherlock signed, “I’ll simply keep him company then.”

John shook his head. “You’re idiots, both of you.”

“Oh, there it is: the common factor.” Toby grinned and wheeled himself out to the sitting room. Sherlock glanced back at John before following.

The flat had a balcony with a single chair. It wouldn’t accommodate the wheelchair, but a pair of crutches rested by the door. Sherlock passed these to Toby.

“Cheers. Grab that, would you?” He nodded to the desk beside the door, or rather to the pad of paper and pen there. “Sure you don’t want one?” he said as he was rolling.

Sherlock wrote, _John really would kill me._

Toby chuckled, “Yeah, he might. Every taken one of his punches?”

_On two occasions, and I fear he may have been holding back both times._

Toby lit the fag and took a satisfying drag. “I’m not like John, you know.”

_No one is. John is a singular individual._

“Real smooth talker, aren’t you?” Toby raised a brow, but he was only half –smiling now.

_It’s sometimes necessary to my profession. However, I mean it sincerely in this case._

“Good. But what I meant was, I’m not straight. I know John is, and I’m glad he’s the kind of person to not let that stop him from finding the best love he can. But, when I first joined the Fifth, I was head-over-heels for him. Knew he’d never reciprocate, so I got over my crush. Damn if it wasn’t nice, though, when we became fuck buddies. God bless doctors who aren’t afraid to put their knowledge to a different kind of use.” He took another drag and, when he exhaled, Sherlock let the smell wash over him. But Toby didn’t break long from talking. “You fucked up,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock now, but at London. His focus wasn’t there, though. “Faking your death like that, doing that to him. When I read about it, that you were back from the grave, I was furious. I couldn’t imagine someone doing that to John. We hadn’t talked in a while by then, but hell if I didn’t still care about him. I wanted to find you and give you a few good punches myself. Because I know John, and what he said on his blog after you jumped, said you were a fake—I know John, and I know what writing that meant.”

Sherlock didn’t write anything. He wanted to say, “I know. I know I hurt him, and there are still days I feel guilty about it. Years later, I still feel guilty about it.” But he had a suspicion such declarations wouldn’t go over well with Toby.

“But he’s sticking with you, and that’s got to mean something, too.” He dropped his fag and smothered it with the tip of a crutch. “I’m not going to pull the big brother spiel; John doesn’t need anyone defending him. But you hurt him in any way, and hell if I’m not on the sidelines cheering John on in teaching you what’s what.” He pulled himself onto his crutches and, despite his shorter stature, stared Sherlock down. “I know John, and I’ve read enough about you, to know John’s got to be taking good care of you. And I don’t mean just your gullet.”

Sherlock nodded.

“So you do the same. You take care of him in the ways he forgets. Because I know John Watson, and he’s a dumbass who tosses away his life for the people he loves.”

Sherlock began to nod again, but stopped and scribbled on the pad, _Did he do that for you?_

Toby looked surprised. “Ask him. It’s not my place to say.”

 

That night, Sherlock came up behind John as he was stripping down for bed. He pressed a kiss to his left shoulder, and John turned around with a smile.

“Tell me about it,” he signed.

“About what?”

Sherlock cradled John’s shoulder ran the pad of his thumb across the scar.

“I’ve told you about that.”

“You got shot. And you’ve told me about everything after that. But not about the actually shooting.”

John frowned. “Haven’t I?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Oh.” John gnawed his bottom lip.

Sherlock thumbed it gently and then kissed him.

“Toby said something, didn’t he?”

“Yes and no. He implied something more happened than just being shot in some enemy attack.”

John sat on the bed, his brow creased in thought and memory.

“It can wait. Or you don’t have to tell me at all.”

“No. I might as well.”

Sherlock settled on the bed next to him, and then pulled him down and close. 

John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and let out a deep breath. “It wasn’t an enemy attack, not in the sense of a mass attack on our camp. We had someone from the other side in our care. He said he had defected, but of course he was still under heavy guard. He still managed to get hold of one of the guard’s rifles and began tearing up the place. We lost half a dozen other patients and few staff. A lot of others were injured like me. Mostly people on duty.”

“You weren’t on duty?”

“No.” John closed his eyes. “But Toby was. I heard the gunfire and made a beeline for the infirmary. When I found Toby, he was frozen. He could deal with war, with nearby skirmishes and blood and all the gore. But faced with something like that, with someone letting loose right in front of him, he couldn’t deal. I barely got him out of the line of fire in time. A second longer, he’d have been dead.” He opened his eyes. His breathing was shallow.

“At injury to yourself.”

“Better a bum shoulder than a dead friend.” John rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. “So what did Toby say?”

“I don’t think I’m meant to share.”

“Fair enough.” He buried his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, kissing it and smiling against the skin. “Night.”

Sherlock flicked off the light and held John close.

 

He knew it was a dream. It couldn’t be happening again with such accuracy.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling the hot pain in his neck.

It didn’t stop the memory from changing; he kept falling. No one was there to break it. He cried out for John, but there was only silence and fire in his throat.

 

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK. God’s sake, wake up!” Whether it was John’s voice or his hands painfully gripping Sherlock’s, Sherlock finally came around.

His heart was racing. His throat felt raw. But John was there, sitting over him, still holding his hands tight.

“You were having a panic attack in your sleep, I swear.” He slowly released Sherlock’s fingers. “Shit, you’re bleeding. Hold on.”

But Sherlock grabbed his wrist before he could leave the bed.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright. But you scratched up your neck pretty bad. Let me just get the first aid kit, alright? Won’t be gone a minute.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock let go.

When he came back, John had Sherlock lay down. He knelt beside him and gently cleaned the fresh scratches on his scarred neck. “They’re not deep. Shouldn’t take long to heal. We should keep them covered, though, to avoid infection. The scar tissue is still sensitive.” He was in doctor mode, avoiding, for the moment, the real issue. But as soon as he put the first aid kit aside, he sat next to Sherlock and rested a hand on his chest. “Talk about it?”

“The shooting,” Sherlock mimed. He was horrified to find his hands were shaking.

John cupped them and kissed them. “Take your time.”

Sherlock pushed through it. “Everything was identical, except you weren’t there. I just kept falling.”

John stroked back Sherlock’s curls. “Well I am here.”

“You weren’t there,” Sherlock repeated.

“I am-”

“To catch-” he faltered. “To hold me.” Even signing it felt ridiculous. He shut his eyes and covered them with his hands. How mortifying to be at the whim of such simplistic thoughts, such childish desires. How could one person do that to him?

The mattress shifted beside him as John settled back under the covers. Then he felt John shimmy an arm under his neck and pull him in by his shoulders. Sherlock slowly let his hands fall and opened his eyes. John gave a tug,

“I’m fine now,” Sherlock signed.

“Sure you are. Ever think that this isn’t just about you, though?”

“You’re a horrid liar.”

“Same goes for you. Now put your hands down and come here.”

Sherlock obeyed, shifting close to John. As soon as he had, John wrapped both arms around him, locking Sherlock’s back against his chest.

“I get it,” John murmured against the back of his neck. “After something like that, maybe months after, you just need something to ground you back to the here and now. I get it. You know I do. So anytime you need grounding, you let me know. Doesn’t matter when or where, I’ll be there. Whether it’s this, or-” he sought out Sherlock’s hand and locked their fingers together “-simply this. You can keep your image and your pride; I don’t care. But between us, you let me know.”

Sherlock nodded, and John kissed his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered with a slight squeeze, both across Sherlock’s chest and their hands.

He couldn’t speak, but it didn’t stop Sherlock from softly mouthing, even if it was only to himself, “Yes, you have.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Please check out some lovely fanart by (having-)weird-feels on [tumblr](http://having-weird-feels.tumblr.com/post/64476373498)/[AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1009965)


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